Living With Him
by Fire Bear1
Summary: When Francis Bonnefoy, a hopeful up-and-coming chef moved to London, he had trouble with accomodation and so he sought the living space provided at 221B Baker Street. Finding Arthur Kirkland, an infamous detective there, his life changed from the path he had laid out and he writes about it now in his journal.


**_This is a crossover in the sense that I'm using the settings for the BBC version of Sherlock (which I don't own or whatever, by the way) and placing the Hetalia characters (also nations I don't own) in the place of the others. Well, mostly._  
**

**_In advance, it's told from Francis' POV (like the Sherlock books, something I also don't have the rights to, yadda yadda) but, since I can't type out stories entirely in French, it's in proper English. _**

**_It's rather a long chapter - I wanted to introduce quite a few characters and also introduce the first case they go on together and it went on for some time. O.o_**

* * *

I had never expected moving to London would provide me with such interesting experiences. I had certainly not expected to meet someone like _him_.

After graduating from an elite cookery school, I had expected to find a job in Paris easily. However, the restaurants there wished for those with more experience than me and, with the economy the way it was, there were a lot to spare. Frustrated, I turned to another option, something a friend at the school had told me – go to London and make a name for myself there before returning to Paris. That way, I would be thought of as someone who had revolutionised the taste buds of the most tasteless nation on the planet and I would be snapped up by the better restaurants in Paris.

Of course, I found a job over the Internet and they snapped me up pretty quickly. However, it was only a part-time job and my parents, furious that I was leaving France to cook for the English, refused to give me any allowance. They decided that I would go crawling back to being a rich family's son.

Instead, I persisted, travelling to London and staying in a cheap hotel. I started work, happy that they would take me on. However, the job was not enough to cover my expenses. And soon came the time when I would be unable to pay to stay every night. Whilst the months wore on, I had been looking for a cheap apartment to rent but it was becoming increasingly apparent that I may not find one affordable.

"Are you still looking for-a place, Signore Bonnefoy?" asked cute little Feliciano one day at work. He was a sweet little thing. He always smiled and a strand of his hair curled ever so cutely out from under his hat. His speciality was the pastas and he usually worked with his rather grumpy brother with a similar strand of hair and a frown.

"Ah, oui," I replied with a frown of my own. "I'll be living on the streets at this rate, mon cher," I added with a sigh, tucking a strand of my own blonde hair behind an ear.

"Ah, well, I saw someone is looking for-a roommate. It's in Baker Street. 221, I think. 221 B."

I threw my arms around the smaller Italian in delight. "Merci beaucoup, Feli! Merci beaucoup!" I hugged him close and wondered if, once I got a place, he would like to come home with me one night. It would be a great opportunity to repay him. I didn't get the chance to ask, however, as, suddenly, his brother appeared.

"Get your hands off my fratello!" exclaimed Lovino, glowering at me. He was so cute when he was angry. Though I liked to see his face like that, I decided to let Feliciano go. I was sure the manager of the restaurant, a German named Ludwig, would be unhappy with me. He seemed to protect the Italian chef constantly.

Sure enough, the door to the kitchen opened and, as if he had a sixth sense for these sorts of things, Ludwig entered. He glanced around and, noting how close I was to the Italians, he glowered at me. I pouted at him – he didn't need to be so mean!

The next day (for my shift ran quite late that night), I dressed in a way that some would say was smart-casual. I wanted to make a good impression yet not seem too snobbish. The suit was a stylish cashmere made by a popular fashion designer and the silk shirt was a dark purple. I left the top two buttons unfastened and neglected the matching tie. The tie would seem too stuffy.

I made my way from the hotel to the Metro – ah, I mean, the Tube – and made my way through the crowds to the correct train line for Baker Street, getting off at the station closest to the address. I only had a little way to walk and I was relieved when I found the address was clearly labelled. However, there was no intercom for the different flats I knew there must be and I was confused how to get anyone's attention.

I walked up the front steps and gazed at the light with the number on it. A plaque beside the large, black front door also detailed the address. There was a large knocker in the middle of the door. I glanced up and down the street, my eyes slipping past the shop next door and to the people wandering slowly up and down the pavement. No-one seemed to be headed towards the old house and I wondered if the trip here had been worth it. Taking a breath, I turned back to the door, took hold of the knocker and rapped it twice. I doubted anyone would answer.

After waiting for a few minutes, I turned to leave when I heard the door handle rattling as someone took hold of it. Surprised, I turned back and watched as it opened.

On the other side was an Asian woman – no, an Asian man. His long black hair was tied back in a ponytail and he looked rather feminine. He was wearing a red traditional Chinese jacket and so I presumed he was Chinese. This was confirmed by his accent when he began to speak.

"Shì ma?" he said.

Thinking that, perhaps, he was asking me what I wanted, I spoke up. "I have been told that there is someone looking for a flatmate in flat B?" I said, frowning a little.

"Ah," said the Chinese man. "That is upstairs, aru. I will take you to him, aru." He held the door open and I stepped inside. The old house had faded wallpaper and a dark carpet. The bulb hanging down from the ceiling gave little light to this part of the house. I stood aside and waited for the smaller man to close the door.

"My name is Mr Wang, aru," he said, as he skirted round me. I watched him hurry towards a door clearly marked 'A'. "Yíhàn. Please wait here a moment," he told me as he hurried inside. When he reappeared, he was blushing slightly and holding a Tupperware box. He looked cute, like an earnest housewife worrying about her husband. I smiled kindly, wondering what he was up to. "Follow me, aru," he said as he turned towards the stairs I had seen beside Mr Wang's flat. We walked up one flight of stairs and stood in front of an open door. There was a large "B" on it.

Mr Wang used his fist to knock on the door and a grunt from within granted him access. The Chinaman sighed and walked in. I cautiously followed.

Inside the room was a bit of a mess. There were papers everywhere. The coffee table had no discernible surface. The couches were also strewn with them. A laptop sat on one of the couches, using the papers as a cushion. There was an armchair beside the fire and, in it, slumped the grey-blue clad figure who nested there. The mantelpiece had upon it a strange variety of objects, one of which caught my eye – a human skull. I hoped that this was for his job and not from interest in the macabre. Elsewhere, there were a couple of desks shoved together – these had piles of folders on top. There were no photographs about. I could see another door beside the one I had entered and there was a huge space where one would have expected a wall to have been, allowing access to the kitchen. There was a huge unit in the middle of that room and the cupboards were wooden. It was all in disarray – it looked as though someone had attempted to cook. They had failed.

"Are you ever going to tidy up, aru?!" exclaimed Mr Wang. "You should get up – there is someone here to see you. And I brought you food."

"If you're going to put the food out, I think the plates and cutlery need washed," said an English voice from the clothing in front of the fire.

"I'm not your housekeeper, aru!" exclaimed Mr Wang, though he went to the kitchen regardless. I caught sight of his profile and could see his cheeks were red. Once there, he began to run water into the sink.

"You made me food," said the man.

"That is only so that I do not have to deal with a fire, aru!" cried Mr Wang, glancing at a cupboard which seemed to have been scorched. I grimaced in sympathy.

A sudden movement caught my eye and I turned to the clothes. The man was now standing up. He was shorter than me with short blonde hair and startlingly green eyes. He was wearing light blue pinstriped pyjamas with a grey-blue dressing gown and dark blue slippers. He seemed to have bags under his eyes and looked as though he was resisting the urge to yawn. He was really cute and I would have taken a liking to him immediately if it hadn't been for the eyebrows. They were huge and I almost couldn't take my eyes off them. I suddenly felt the urge to pluck them and I had to resist frowning. Instead, I took a deep breath through my nose and held out my hand.

"Bonjour. I have heard that you are looking for a roommate, Monsieur. I was hoping to apply."

The man stared for a moment and then turned away from me. "I thought I told you not to let the French in here?" he said to Mr Wang.

Mr Wang rolled his eyes and gave a slight shrug. "You need a roommate, aru. No-one else wants to be it, aru."

"Donald is the only one who thinks that!" snapped the man. He turned back to me to glare. I looked back impassively, trying not to be too offended. It was clear that this man did not get out much, nor did he seem to interact with anyone. I wondered who Donald was and wondered if he was cuter than this man – or if he was handsome. "How did you find out about this place, anyway?" he demanded.

"Ah, a colleague told me about the fact that you are looking for someone," I explained. "I have a job and I shall be able to pay for the rent." I neglected to mention my monetary difficulties.

"Hm," said the man before glancing at Mr Wang. He had finished washing the plates and cutlery and he had dished up enough for three people. The Englishman then ignored me and went to the plates. He picked one up and began to eat the noodles. "It should be affordable for you if you use your talents to cook for me. Oh, and to help me tidy up when I'm at a crossroads." He nodded towards the living room. "Of course, you could just go back to your parents in France if you're truly struggling to stay afloat here."

I gaped at him. I had hardly spoken to him and yet he seemed to be more aware of who I was than I was of him. "E-Exusez-moi?!" I spluttered.

He looked at me and raised a large eyebrow. "You're wearing a rather expensive designer suit. That means that you have money and you care about what you wear. However, that is an old design which means you haven't bought any new suits recently. So you are struggling for money but you grew up in a rich environment. That probably means that your parents gave you money for most of your life. Now, though, you're trying to stand on your own feet. However, your job doesn't pay well enough for you to have your own place – you've been staying at a hotel, paying per night with the money you had left over from your last allowance. Therefore, your parents are unhappy about your decision and trying to make you see sense and go home – in Paris, they could use their influence and get you a full-time job instead of a part-time job. And I've heard that, in Paris, it's increasingly difficult to become a chef as there is so little demand for newcomers in the cookery business. So you've come to London to make a name for yourself. I think you should seriously consider going back to Paris – I doubt you'll be of much use here."

There was a silence interrupted only by Arthur and Mr Wang eating. For a few minutes, I could say nothing – what had just happened? was the question running through my head.

"Quoi…?" I managed. "Com-? How did you…?"

"He is overly clever, aru," said Mr Wang. "Let him stay, Arthur – I would rather he cooked in here than you, aru."

Arthur scowled. It seemed a rather odd name for him, I thought. After all, I associated the name with royalty and the kings of old – probably because of the King Arthur legends. This man, however, was not how I imagined an Arthur to look. An Arthur, in my mind, should have stubble and long, flowing hair to his chin. Blonde hair, it would be, and his eyes would be a brilliant blue, kind and strong. This Arthur, however, had anger in his green eyes. And something else… As I stared at him I realised: he seemed to be wary. His messy blonde hair suggested that he didn't need to appear as a leader to people – yet, the air he gave off, was of someone who was used to leading. I found myself rather interested by him.

"You should move in, aru," said Mr Wang at my elbow. I didn't answer, still staring at the strange man before me. Then, suddenly, we both realised we were alone as the door clicked shut. Arthur's eyes widened and my head snapped round as I stared where Mr Wang had been.

I was alone with Arthur.

Deciding it would be best to get acquainted with a man who I might very well be living with for the next few years of my life, I cleared my throat and extended my hand. "Bonjour, Monsieur Arthur. My name is Francis Bonnefoy."

Arthur ignored my hand and made his way back to the high-backed armchair he had been sitting in. He kicked his slippers off and curled up in his bare feet, still clutching the plate. He continued eating. For a moment, I considered storming out of the flat. However, suddenly, he spoke.

"Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland."

"Well, it is very nice to meet you Monsieur Kirkland. Is there-?"

"Don't you know who I am?" he interrupted me to ask. He looked a little disappointed.

I blinked in confusion before shaking my head. He clicked his tongue in obvious annoyance and placed the plate precariously on the table. He got up and reached across for the laptop. Using the power cord, he tugged it towards him and picked it up before falling back into his chair. Deftly using his finger to manipulate the mouse pad, he quickly clicked the mouse a few times. Finally, he flipped the laptop round so that I could see what was on the screen.

A website had been brought up. It was called "The Science of Deduction". Looking closer, I read the profile. It told how Arthur Kirkland was a consulting detective who had solved many difficult-to-solve crimes. I looked up at him. No wonder he was wary – if he advertised his presence in this way, no doubt someone would try to 'take care' of him. I was beginning to think I should just leave before I got hurt. I am not overly fond of pain.

"If that scares you off-" Arthur began. I was only able to catch a glimpse of his weary and sad expression before the door to the apartment was thrown open, a loud bang drowning out any more conversation and making me jump. I straightened as Arthur leapt up and I turned to look at the newcomer whilst Arthur shouted at him. "Jones! How many times do I have to tell you not to bang the door?!"

The man in the doorway looked round and grimaced, guiltily. He had short blonde hair with a cowlick that stuck up so profoundly that I doubted it ever smoothed down. His brilliant blue eyes were framed by rectangular spectacles. However, the oddest thing about him was that he was wearing a black suit – with Nike trainers. Not only that, but, under his white shirt, I could clearly see that he was wearing a t-shirt. A closer look revealed a large "S", much like the one Superman used for his logo.

"Sorry, Arthur. I was in a hurry, y'see." I could clearly hear his American accent and I wondered what he could want with this secluded man. How did he know him? Why was he so familiar with him? All these questions ran through my mind before my train of thought was interrupted.

"Another one," said Arthur behind me, forgetting for the moment, seemingly, about the door. The way he said it seemed to have a strange tone to me. It wasn't a question or a resigned statement – it was a fact.

"Yeah. I have my car with me – let's go." It was at this point that Jones seemed to see me. He looked shocked for a moment before frowning in confusion. "Who's that?"

I turned to look at Arthur who had been in the process of taking off his dressing gown. He glanced at me and hesitated. It was almost as though he was gauging what he should tell Jones and what he should assume of me. "He's my assistant."

This worried me. 'Another one'? And why did he seem wary about what to tell the American? Perhaps I really should leave, was what I thought as I watched him hurry to the door I had not been through. On the other side, I glimpsed some stairs and he disappeared, letting the door swing shut. It wasn't long until he had returned, now wearing a suit without a tie, a long dark coat and a blue scarf. By that point, I was curious despite myself. I knew that I might get into some sort of trouble if I followed but he had introduced me as his assistant. I glanced at him as he ushered Jones out of the door – perhaps he wanted some company on this case. Perhaps he was a lonely person, looking for a friend. I smiled slightly: I had the feeling he would never admit that.

"Are you coming or staying there?" asked Arthur suddenly, cutting through my train of thought.

"Ah! Oui!" I exclaimed and hurried after him.

* * *

Half an hour later, we reached the building. The street had been cordoned off but we were allowed through with a wave and a nod. Everyone looked grim. I still had no idea what was going on at this point for Arthur had forbidden Jones to speak. He had stared out of the window, musing, ignoring me. I had decided not to speak, realising that it would be explained in due course.

The car slowed to a stop and Jones put on the handbrake with a crunch before climbing out. He opened the door for Arthur who didn't appear to have noticed us stopping. He blinked and rose from his place as I got out of the other side. I watched Arthur sweep past Jones who rolled his eyes and frowned after him. I hurried after them lest I be arrested, mistaken for a trespasser.

By this point, I had worked out that Jones must be a detective of some sort. I had thought that Arthur's website had been a fantasy of his but it was now blatantly obvious that I had been wrong in my assumption.

We entered the house and I was instructed to put on protective clothing. Nervously, I complied whilst Arthur went on ahead. I watched as he disappeared into the basement and, once I was fully clothed, I hurried after him.

Halfway down the steps, however, I gasped and stopped, staring at the scene before me. In the dark room, a single bulb hung, illuminating only a circle of the room. This circle included much of the crime scene. A large circle had been drawn with lines intersecting it at certain intervals. In the middle of it lay a nude woman. Her stomach looked as though it had caved in. One of her arms had been hacked off and was moved to her other side, pointing at one of the lines whilst her other arm crossed her stomach as if in rest. A small box sat next the line she pointed at.

I felt myself retch and I backed up, clutching the bannister for support. I fought to keep myself from vomiting, swallowing several times.

"You okay?" asked a voice behind me. I turned to look and found myself gazing into the blue eyes of Jones. He looked rather confused and concerned and I hurriedly nodded. "Well, if you're sure…" He surveyed me as I straightened up. "I'm Detective Sergeant Jones. You can call me Alfred."

I took his proffered hand and shook it. "I am Francis Bonnefoy."

"Nice to meet ya!" said Alfred, excitedly. "If you're okay, let's go down!" And, with that, he brushed past me and continued on his way. I gulped, took a breath and forced myself to go down the stairs. Now I realise that I could have just waited outside. However, it never occurred to me at the time and I just pushed forward, determined not to look weak. Though it was still a great effort and I felt as though my knees would buckle underneath me as I made my way towards Arthur, only looking at the body from the corner of my eyes. I hoped this strategy would prevent me from feeling ill again.

By this time, he was crouching beside the body, surveying it. He looked not a bit abashed and was thinking deeply. He may have also been looking for something. I glanced over the poor woman and my eyes caught sight of the box. It was actually an alarm clock. The hands were stuck at the three o'clock position. I frowned – what did that mean? Had she died in the early hours of the morning? Or yesterday afternoon?

I looked round and spotted another person in the basement. He had blonde hair with a curl of hair that stuck out – another man with unruly hair. In this light, however, I could not see the colour of his eyes behind his rectangular spectacles. On the other hand, I could see his slight blush and it made him look rather cute. He wore the full protective clothing and was holding onto a bag. He seemed to be trying to attract Arthur's attention to speak to him. I glanced at Arthur and, since he was being ignored, I turned to the man and spoke.

"Bonjour. Je m- My name is Francis Bonnefoy. Who are you?"

The man blinked and blushed deeper. "B-Bonjour," he said, nervously. "Je m'appelle Matthew Williams."

I was rather shocked to find someone willing to speak French in London and I smiled happily at him. He smiled back and seemed to gain some confidence. He turned back to Arthur and spoke to him.

"M-Mr Kirkland…" he said, hesitantly.

Arthur looked up and blinked before focussing on the young man. "Yes?" he said.

"W-Well… The-The victim has been dead for a few hours. I would estimate between two and four in the morning – probably closer to three. She was killed first and then the arm hacked off. Of course, I can't be sure until the post mortem, but it looks like she died from massive haemorrhaging following the lacerations to the stomach area. Eh… Don't you think, eh?" During this speech, I realised that, what I had taken to be an American accent was, in fact, a Canadian accent.

By this point, the young man was blushing again. Arthur gazed at him and nodded. He stood up and I watched as he turned to Alfred. "So, who was she?"

"Ah!" said Alfred, alarmed. He fished a notebook out of his breast pocket and flicked it open. "Hm, she was Jane Collers. She was twenty-five years old. She worked in the local supermarket. Lived here with her parents who had won a week away and returned home this morning. They heard the alarm on the clock and came down. Called us in. No boyfriend. No siblings. No enemies, everyone loved her. The usual shtick."

"Did she go to college or university?"

Alfred looked taken aback – he obviously hadn't even considered that. "Uh…" he said, looking sheepish.

"She went to university…" said Matthew quietly. Everyone looked at him and he became rather flustered. "I, er, spotted her graduation photos on the way in and had a look at her certificate that's hanging up."

"Was it, by any chance, Oxford University?"

"Eh, yes," said the Canadian.

"Department?"

"Eh… Social Sciences."

"Hm…"

"What is it?" asked Alfred, looking rather confused.

"The other two victims went to Oxford. Different departments, though."

Two other victims – I realised then that there was a serial killer on the loose. A chill ran down my spine and I wondered if I was in danger. I relaxed a little soon after as I realised the link was the university.

"Different departments, huh?" said Alfred. "So they wouldn't have met each other?"

"Highly unlikely."

I frowned. Why would it be unlikely? Didn't they have strange and secret clubs in Oxford? I remembered a friend telling me about them – he had gone to Oxford to study history, I believed and he had discovered that they had clubs there which involved wearing old-fashioned clothes and doing very English things. They could have met in one of them, surely?

I decided to speak up. "Excusez-moi…" Once I had their attention, I tilted my head on one side. "A club. They have clubs and societies in universities, oui? Might they not have met at one of them?"

There was a brief silence before Arthur spun to Alfred. "We need to know what club they went to." He turned to Matthew. "I'll come to the mortuary with you – I want to see the results of the post-mortem. You," he added, turning to me. "Here." He tossed me something which glinted as it passed through the air. Instinctively, I caught and peered at it. It was a set of keys. "You can move in while I'm busy," he said by way of explanation.

Surprised, I gaped at him for a moment. I felt as though I had passed some sort of test. Perhaps I had. But I was still unsure as to whether I should move in there or not…

* * *

I caught a taxi back to my hotel and went in, clutching at the set of keys in my pocket. Should I move in with him? The question continued running through my head as I entered the elevator. An elderly couple were present and they wrinkled their noses a little as I stepped in. Realising that I must smell – and still feeling a little queasy from the whole experience – I headed straight for the shower, dropping the keys on the table.

Once I had finished bathing, I stepped out, rubbing at my hair with the towel, pacing the familiar path to the wardrobe to pick out some fresh clothes. I threw the towel to the ground and looked at all of my designer and fashionable clothes. What should I wear for moving? I realised what I had thought and frowned, glancing at my naked body in the mirror. The room was reflected in it, too, as was the man sitting on the bed. I glanced towards my clothes again before gasping and spinning round. "Que voulez-vous?!" I exclaimed in fright.

"Please calm down, Mr Bonnefoy," said the man, grinning cheekily – his accent was Scottish and it surprised me. He surveyed me and my cheeks reddened. I took in his appearance. He had short red hair and thick eyebrows. He was wearing a suit, the shirt unbuttoned slightly at the top and the jacket open. But what I noticed the most was his eyes – they were a similar green to someone else's I had seen already that day.

"Who are you?" I asked, staying still. I didn't want to make any sudden movements.

"Why don't ye cover yourself up first? Ye can just use the towel."

Hesitantly, I picked it up and wrapped it around my hips. Then I folded my arms across my chest. "Who are you? How did you get in here? And what do you want?"

The man held up his hands. "One question at a time, please. I can only answer so quickly." He noticed my glaring and stood up, stepping to the window and looking out before turning back to me. "My name is Donald Kirkland. I'm Arthur's older brother. I'll no tell you how I got in – let's just say that I can. And I want ye to move in with him."

There was a pause.

"Quoi?!" I burst out. "Why should I?! It is clear he does not like me! Et I see no reason to move in with someone so- So- So disagreeable!" At that moment, I was exaggerating these facts – I was merely outraged at being ordered to do something and I was plucking excuses from the air.

"And yet he gave ye his keys, aye?"

I froze and glanced towards the table. There, beside the keys, was an envelope. Frowning, I quickly looked at the man before making my way towards it. I picked it up and peered inside. There were a lot of purple notes. There were so many and, at first, I thought I had been given enough to buy my own house. Then I remembered that, in England, the purple notes were only worth twenty pounds as opposed to the five hundred Euros I had thought they were at first.

"What is this?" I demanded.

"Use it for food and bills. And for part of the rent, of course. I think I may well just increase my brother's money, too. Not that he'll know I'm giving him any." He made his way to the wardrobe and looked in. Then he pulled out my suitcase. "Should I help ye pack?"

Still frowning, I marched over and pulled the suitcase from his grasp. "I can manage, merci."

Donald grinned at me. "Well, I'll be checking up on ye every so often so make sure ye move in quick!" And, with that, he let himself out of my hotel room.

Unsure as to whether or not I would be safe if I didn't move in to Arthur's apartment, I sat down on the bed and thought. Donald's intent seemed malicious – it was just the aura he had been giving off. Of course, he was helping his brother but, since he wasn't doing it face-to-face, I presumed they were on bad terms. If I moved in, would I be hurting one of them?

My heart panged and I realised I actually cared enough about Arthur and his weary expression to want to prevent him any harm. If I was careful, perhaps I could help him rather than hinder. And, if I was there, I would be able to protect him from his brother, wouldn't I?

I glanced at the keys. He barely knew me and yet he trusted me with his apartment, with his job, with some knowledge of his life. I bit my lower lip before sighing, knowing that I was getting myself into something strange.

I stood up and began to pack.

* * *

_**It's kind of hard to have Scotland as Mycroft. It doesn't really work. But, oh well. I hope to continue this - I also hope this unsolved mystery will make sense to people when I resolve it... O.o  
**_


End file.
